


I'll Write It Down

by rukafais



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the truth of things, what you have learned balancing the scales, carrying and fetching and burning: words carry weight. And these words, and all that they contain, are weighty indeed; that is what you have been taught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Write It Down

**Author's Note:**

> More "Masters and humans doing things together and being pals!" Hooray!

The first time you tell him, the words dry out in your mouth, and they do not quite make it, as intended.

The sound that comes up is somewhere between a choke and a gurgle.

“Oh, weren’t you wearing gloves? You should be. Indubitably.” Pages is not very concerned. He is perhaps the most relaxed individual you have ever worked under in your life, except when it comes to thievery.

He plucks the book from your suddenly-nerveless grasp and turns it over with surprising deftness, handling its unnatural vitality with brisk movements (he scolds it when it tries to nip at gloved fingers). He hands it back.

“Perhaps wear something more thickeferous?” he suggests, kindly. “We are aware your kind does not have the resilitude to quite withstand those tomelings that may bite...or worse.”

You find words, at last. “I’m fine, sir.”

“Oh! You are indeed! Your speechifying has returned to you. Good, good.”

\---------

The second time, you are interrupted.

Glass crashes, shatters; a bomb. Special Constables rush to take care of the incendiary device. Your eyes are on the person hauling the heavy tome wrapped in thirsty, dark fabric out of a nearby container.

You remember how much time you had spent helping contain it (almost losing your eyes and half an arm in the process, but oh, you were _proud_ that you were so accomplished now, so high in the ranks, that Mr Pages had called for you specifically to help him, and nobody else), and you go after the thief.

You catch him on the spires of the Bazaar, about to swing away; you use your knife to cut away his only escape route. He is cornered, trapped, and thus dangerous.

“You know, we wrapped that book in bombazine for a reason-” you duck the wild swing, the sudden unsheathing of the sword, “-it’s because--”

A heavy thud; you tackle him and pray you aren’t stabbed in the process. The book flies free of its painstakingly assembled wrappings and you look away.

He screams. The sword goes clattering among the Bazaar’s spires as he claws at his eyes; the entire scene is cast in stark blacks and whites, an intense and enduring illumination. You snap your goggles down and catch the book, fighting it every scant step of the way to get it back in the fabric again.

"--because it's very bright," you finish off, though you know he can't hear you.

You inspect your thick clothing for damage, back inside, once the book has been subdued and the thief dragged off. The clothing is burned, almost charred where you had clasped the book to your chest, as if it had been put to the torch.

Pages moves silently when he needs to; you’re still on edge from the fight, and you practically levitate when he touches your shoulder.

It gets a chuckle out of him, almost apologetic. “If you require replacementory for your fabrics, apply to us,” he instructs, obviously in good cheer. “We will ensure your outfittings are suitaceptable.”

It gives you a sort of warm fuzzy feeling, really.

\----------

The third time, not only do you manage to get the words out, but you have an entire speech prepared beforehand.

You are taking tea in his high, vaulted chambers - his personal apartments - and he stares at you for a long while. You begin to stutter apologies, and he waves a hand.

“No, no! You misread me entirely, my little inkblot. I am flattered."

It is the first time he has used ‘I’ to refer to himself, in private. You are suddenly very aware that you are alone, with Pages, in a private place. You feel that this should be more significant somehow, but you don’t feel much at all; you have never felt much along those lines, but all the literature you have ever read tells you: “there is no room in these stories for people like you”.

“Flattered, but unfortunately I cannot reprocreate the feeling - not exactly in the way you would prefer it, I feel. Romantical attractionate is something that has always eluded me personally - I apologise, and if you take offense you would not be the first-”

“No! Um. No. I mean. Sir. You don’t feel any romantic attraction? At all?” The eagerness in your voice must give you away; he blinks at you, almost owlishly. You feel foolish, but you press on.

“It’s just that I, uh--I mean, I love you, but--not--not the way a story--should be--?”

“There are many loves! Many loves, my little inkblot. Romance is not the be all and end all of it. I feel that you humans perpetuate that myth altogether too much.” He pats your hand and wraps delicate fingers around the handle of his teacup. “Finish your tea, eh? We have work to do, sooner rather than later.”

“Of course.” You drink, slightly faster than normal. There is a pause. “Um. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I love you."

“Of course.”

And you do; there is no doubting that.

There are many kinds of love, after all.

 

 

 


End file.
